Gifts Once Given
by Musegaarid
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't care for the holidays, but Crowley helps him to remember why they celebrate.


"What's wrong, angel?"

Aziraphale was startled out of his reverie. "What? Oh, nothing."

"Don't give me that," said Crowley. "You've barely touched your rabbit moutarde. Look at that, you're just toying with it now."

The angel put his fork down and reached for his glass. Sparing another glance at the beautiful decorations around the Ritz's main dining room, he downed about half of his glass of wine.

Crowley stared. "What the hell is the matter with you? You don't chug a '75 Lafite Rothschild."

Looking guiltily into his glass, Aziraphale said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I guess… I mean, I suppose… Well, I just don't much care for this time of year and…"

"This time of year? It's Christmas! Your lot gets to sing Hosanna and whatnot. It's bugger all for me with this goodwill crap, though a lot of the petty annoyances are quite amusing, but you should be dancing in the streets."

"Well, I'm not," muttered Aziraphale. "It's all so tawdry. Cheap baubles and a fat man in a red suit granting wishes. Nicholas wasn't like that at all. Did you ever meet him?"

"Don't remember. When was he?"

"Early 300's. Turkey."

"Nah, I was in Rome then."

"Oh yes. Of course. Orchestrating the fall of the Roman Empire."

"While you were orchestrating the rise of Christianity. Good times. Those early Christians burned so well," teased Crowley.

Aziraphale's scowl deepened. "At any rate, he was just a nice man who was kind to the poor and led his congregation as best he could. He didn't deserve all this crass vulgarity to be carried out in his name. I should have known the Americans would ruin it for everyone."

"Come on, angel," said Crowley. "What about the big guy? The 'reason for the season' as they say. It's not all about Santa Claus. It's His birthday. Nativity scenes, caroling, pageants and plays…"

"Crowley, you know as well as I do that Jesus was born in April. And even if he weren't, I don't see how encouraging greed, envy, vanity, and gluttony exalts Him on high."

"You're making this sound better and better," grinned Crowley. "But what about Christmas Mass? Lots of people go to church, hear the word, whatever."

Aziraphale threw up his hands, "That's exactly my point, though. A lot of people only go to church on Christmas and Easter. As if it's enough to hear about Christ's birth and death. It's just a token nod to their Creator. For an investment of only a few hours a year, you too can go to Heaven. It's an insult is what it is!"

"Whoa, calm down there, angel. Don't get yourself worked up about it!"

"Don't get… why ever not?" exclaimed Aziraphale heatedly.

"Because we're in a public place and you're embarrassing me."

Aziraphale subsided into his chair, feeling ashamed and annoyed. He picked up his fork again and pushed the food around his plate. Or he did until Crowley grabbed his wrist and made him put it down again.

"Come on, let's go."

"Go? We haven't ordered dessert yet?"

"I am not going to sit here and watch you play with that, too." Crowley stood up.

"Well, I am not going to let you leave without paying again," said Aziraphale stubbornly.

Crowley sat back down again. "Fine," he said and held his black card aloft. The maitre d' knew better than to keep the dark haired man waiting, because terrible things seemed to happen when he did, so he rushed over and took his payment at once. In mere minutes they were standing outside the building.

Turning up the collar of his coat against the cold and shoving his hands into his pockets, Crowley said, "Let's go for a walk."

"Walk?" repeated Aziraphale, bundling into his own coat. "It's three degrees out here!"

"Then don't feel it," said Crowley, peeved. "That's easier for you anyway, so I don't want to hear any more complaining."

After a moment, Aziraphale said, "You know, if you're planning on trying Dickens on me, it won't work."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "God save us, every one," came the sarcastic reply.

They walked together past the brilliantly lit windows and festive shop displays of London on Christmas Eve. The white snow in the streets shone in reflected patches of red and green and silver and gold. The smell of roast goose and chestnut stuffing hung heavy in the air and tiny snowflakes sparkled in Crowley's dark hair. There was an unusual stillness in the great city on this night that the occasional passing car served only to highlight. Lost in their own thoughts, neither interrupted the comfortable hush as they crunched side-by-side through the snow.

Ten minutes later, Aziraphale was surprised to find himself outside of Crowley's building.

"Nightcap?" asked the demon.

At a nod from the angel, they headed to the top floor. Crowley's flat was not decorated for the holiday, but Aziraphale would have been shocked if it had been. He settled on the couch while Crowley fetched the vintage port. Handing a glass to Aziraphale, Crowley lifted his own and said, "To... what precisely, Ebenezer?"

He thought a moment. "To departed friends."

Crowley gave him an odd look and drank. "So, you really hate Christmas that much?"

"No, not hate. I can't hate anything."

The demon snorted. Aziraphale ignored it.

"But I can't say that I care for it much."

Crowley eyed him over his glass. "Then you don't want your gift, then?"

"My… what?"

"Gift, angel. Pay attention, would you?"

Aziraphale looked chagrined. "I didn't get you anything…"

"You don't get a demon a Christmas gift! Honestly, Aziraphale… It's human nonsense anyway. Once it becomes an obligation to reciprocate, it's no longer a gift." Crowley stood and walked towards his bedroom.

The angel watched him go, then stared into his drink, hoping it would explain the bizarre direction the conversation had suddenly taken.

Crowley returned holding a beautifully-crafted box about ten inches long, four inches wide, and three inches deep. Wordlessly, he handed it to the angel. Aziraphale took it, studying Crowley's face, but the demon's calm expression wasn't giving anything away. Then he turned his attention to the box and gently opened the lid.

The inside was padded and lined with white satin to protect the object inside. With a gasp of recognition, Aziraphale pulled it out carefully. For some moments, all he could do was stare at it, stunned. What the angel held in his palm was a crude wood carving of a snake about eight inches long.

Not breathing, he stared at Crowley until he regained his voice. "Where…? Where did you find this?"

"The desert," explained Crowley simply. "It was radiating holiness for fifty miles. Nothing much else was right after He left. I had to go see what it was. When I found it, it smelled like you. And Him. I, uh, probably should have given it back a very long time ago…" He ran one hand through his damp hair.

"Oh, Crowley," breathed Aziraphale. He gazed at the small thing in his hand with suspiciously bright eyes. "I thought I'd lost this forever... Jesus made it for me for Hanukkah, you know. He was nine years old, I think. He said that I seemed quite lonely sometimes and he thought I could use a friend."

"Perceptive child," said Crowley quietly.

"I suppose that was the point really," Aziraphale replied, turning his head away.

Crowley averted his eyes, giving the angel the time and space he needed. He looked up again when he heard the tiny snick of the box lid closing.

"Thank you, my dear," said Aziraphale. "I… just… thank you."

"Happy Christmas, angel."

"Yes it is, isn't it?" 


End file.
